Broken Memories
by screamtoheaven
Summary: She was trying to recover everything that he'd worked so hard to forget. And the vulnerability would kill him eventually. :: DracoHermione :: Rated M for future chapters.


**Broken Memories**

**Chapter One**

"But, Doctor Granger, you don't understand!"

"I'm quite sure that I do, Mrs. Aflects."

"No! No! If I don't keep my toes covered, the hair combs will most assuredly devour me!" The middle-aged woman fought Hermione with her feeble limbs, attempting to wrestle the blanket from the young psychiatrist's firm grip. "_Devour_ me! I can't let that happen! Where shall the ministry be without my toes?"

"I comprehend your predicament completely, Mrs. Aflects. And I swear to you that if you're attacked by the hair combs, I will see that you receive the best medical attention to re-secure your toes." Hermione gave a strong jerk, pulling the blanket away and beginning to fold it calmly. "You see? Nothing's happened thus far. You're going to be alright."

Mrs. Aflects stared at Hermione for one long, fearful moment before her head jerked. A high, piercing shriek tore itself from her throat. Desperate to escape a non-existent enemy, she jumped up fully onto her cot and began hopping in an attempt to keep herself in the air for as long as possible. "I can see them!" Her voice had a note of hysterical insanity to it. "They're crawling across the rug! Oh gods!"

"Mrs. Aflects, please don't – "

Another mad scream of terror and a pillow flying towards her head made Hermione pause to consider whether or not this was really a good idea. The cushion struck her full in the face, causing a bit of discomfort, but no pain or injury that Hermione could tell. _Of course, there's no telling how many brain cells she just killed by hitting me with that…_

The poor woman was attempting to climb up the drapes that hung from the solitary window that graced her room, emitting screams so loud that they gave the witch a headache. Deciding that there was only one course of action left, the psychiatrist turned on her heels and exited the room. Outside the doorway, Lavender Brown stood nervously, a clipboard held up against her chest by white knuckles.

"Knock her out," Hermione said wearily, taking her white jacket from Lavender's spare hand. "And be sure her toes are covered with that blanket when she wakes up. I want a log on her behavior on my desk in the morning. And the audio log from her room."

"Out of curiosity, why the audio, Doctor?" Lavender was scribbling away on the clipboard, her brows furrowing.

Hermione frowned slightly and turned back to look through the window at her patient. Mrs. Aflects had torn one of the drapes from its clasp and was now waving it ferociously in the direction of the floor. So softly, almost as if to herself, she said, "I need to know what she's been dreaming. It might give us some insight as to where this hair comb situation appeared from."

"Will do, Hermione." She turned back to see her friend smiling in an admiring way, the clipboard now against one of her hips. "Sorry I called you down. I just didn't know what you would have done in the situation. The new volunteer that the Ministry sent down nearly had her head torn off because she was wearing hair combs. I've never seen Mrs. Aflects jump that high. "

Hermione snorted ruefully, rolling her eyes. "I'm sure. Tell that girl only hair bands. And to stay away from my patients from now on. The only place I want her volunteering is in the paperwork office."

"I don't think she'll need any serious convincing. I'll be surprised if she hasn't already requested a re-assignment. Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"We must have been insane ourselves to choose this profession."

Hermione laughed a little louder, sweeping a few curls that had escaped their bobby pins out of her eyes. "I suppose it takes someone mad to relate to madness. I'll be in my office if there's further need of me."

"Oh. The front desk sent me a message for you, by the way."

"Ye gods, what now?"

"Mr. Weasley is here to see you. He's waiting in your office," Lavender continued, ignoring the pained expression on her friend's face.

Hermione buried her face in her hands for a moment, massaging her temples with her forefingers as if to relieve the ache beginning to form there. "Ron? What in bloody hell is _he_ doing here? I am _so_ not in the mood for a lunch date."

"He said it was ministry business."

"Ministry business?" Hermione repeated. Her eyes narrowed, immediately taking on an expression of calculation. She slipped one arm into the sleeve of her white jacket, and then the other, shrugging the stiff fabric over her small shoulders. Checking to see that her nametag was straight, she muttered, "What do those bastards want now?"

Lavender shrugged. "Don't ask me. He hasn't said anything to me about it. My guess is as good as yours."

"What? No pillow talk?"

The psychologist did not look amused. "Tell him that if it's about sending more volunteers, we don't want them. I'm tired of saving well-meaning blondes from Mrs. Aflects' wrath."

"I never took you for a prejudice bitch, Lavender."

"Me neither. Drinks later?"

"Certainly. Six then?"

"As always." Lavender's attention was diverted from Hermione to the window that peeked into Mrs. Aflects' room. She made a face. "Excuse me. I have to take care of this now." She squeezed past Hermione. And, as the psychiatrist made her way down the hall away from the scene of the disaster, she heard the rustling sound of Lavender removing her wand from her nurse's robes. "Don't worry, ma'am. The hair combs don't like to attack when you sleep. And guess what? It's _sleepy time_, Mrs. Aflects…"

The mental ward of St. Mungo's hospital was never quiet during the day. But that afternoon, there was a certain stillness in the hallways that came off as eerily false. It was almost a tangible shift in the atmosphere, something she could touch. And as her footsteps clicked against the polished, marble floors, Hermione wondered if something unnatural was causing it. She let her fingers trail against the wall that she traveled along, savoring the physical contact of the world she existed in. It had been far too hard in the past few weeks to lose appreciation for what life she had left to live. With the war raging outside the walls of the hospital and her home, Hermione knew that all chances of leading a normal existence could be lost with the simple flick of a betraying wand or the harsh reality of a spy's whisper.

It was sometimes hard to believe that it had been eight years since her last year at Hogwarts. She could still remember it so clearly – Dumbledore's funeral. How Harry had sworn that he would find those damned horcruxes. And how Ron and she had sworn blindly to follow him no matter what. That year – the Year of Nightmare Beginnings, was what she called it in her mind – was still burned into her mind like a dream that was too vivid to forget. How she wished she could. They had set out during the autumn with high ambitions. They were going to save the world! Kill Voldemort and the nightmares that he caused. Little had they known of the damage they would cause.

And of the war they would ultimately spur into existence. Of course, the battle had always been coming, ever since the moment Harry, in his infancy, had caused Voldemort's first downfall. But it had been they, as a trio that had caused it to happen sooner rather than later. And here they were, eight years later, still in the middle of a war that had no end in sight.

"Doctor Granger?"

Hermione jerked herself to a stop after realizing that she had wandered right past her own office. Turning around halfway, she noticed that her volunteer secretary was staring at her with a look of concern. "Are you alright, Miss?"

She blinked and cleared her throat. "Yes. I'm sorry. I just had a…moment. It's one of those days, I suppose."

"I suppose." The petite brunette eyed her doubtfully. "Mr. Weasley from the Ministry of Magic is here to see you, ma'am. He's waiting inside your office."

"Thank you, Ashley." Hermione flashed a tired smile, and pressed the palm of her hand to the doorknob to turn it gently. The door squeaked slightly on its hinges, causing the red head seated in front of her impressive desk to turn slightly and glance at her. His whiskered face broke into a big smile and he stood to embrace her for the moment that she would allow him to.

Hermione had to admit to herself that the gesture was not unwelcome as she pressed her forehead into the firm curve of his shoulder. Ron smelled as he always had – of clean soap and something that undeniably stood for safety. Yet she never was quite able to figure out what that something was. But for the moment, she let herself enjoy it. It had been ages since she had last allowed herself to feel protected. Pulling back, she stroked his cheek fondly. "I haven't seen you in ages."

Ron's lips curled upward into a pleased smile, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled like they always did when he was happy. He was the same, even if he tried to cover it with stubble and longer hair. She couldn't help but feel grateful that something had stayed the same in all this chaos. "I can say the same. You look good, Mione. Beautiful as ever."

"Thank you, Ronniekins," she said cheerfully, as she crossed to her chair behind the desk and seated herself. Her hands immediately reverted to their old habit of picking up a pen and tapping it repeatedly against the desktop.

"I hate it when you call me that."

"Well, I have to have some sort of tyrannical hold on you. Sit down, pal." _Tap, tap_. A steady rhythm meant that she wasn't irate or nervous. So far, so good. She saw Ron's eyes flit to her steadily working fingers, noting the even beat between taps. He knew the routine well. It dated back to their school days. He knew well the dangers of a sudden decrease or increase in rhythm. "Lavender said you've come on Ministry business."

He took a long breath and blew it out, removing the cap that he'd shoved onto his mop of red hair and setting it on the desk_. Leave it to Ron to wear a quidditch cap with a formal winter coat_, she thought affectionately. The coat was new too. And it was probably a welcome change for the Weasley who was too used to wearing formerly used robes. He looked nervous, his thumb worrying the edge of one sleeve a little too much and his teeth biting the inside of his left cheek repeatedly. "She likes working here, you know. Lavender, I mean. She likes working with _you_."

_Tap, tap, tap_. "So she's told me," Hermione said patiently, smiling politely. "I wouldn't dream of hiring a different assistant. She's my single voice of sanity in all these war sickness cases."

"I thought that was Harry's job. And my job."

"Always," she replied automatically without even blinking. "I meant she's my _literal_ voice of sanity. What with all the…" She waved around her vaguely, not feeling the need to elaborate. She worked in the mental ward, for heaven's sake. There wasn't much need for explanation as far as _that_ was concerned. "But enough of your family. Not that I couldn't go on and on about your family, of course…" She really could, actually. Lavender, Ginny, Charlie, Percy, Fred and George…She suddenly missed them very much. A part of her heart existed in the Burrow, she was almost certain. A part of her that would never leave the happy years of her childhood. A sigh of longing bubbled in her chest, but she refused to let it surface.

Somehow sensing what she wanted to know, Ron fiddled with the brim of his cap and said quietly, "They're all doing well. Mum and Dad were buried properly and…Well, Ginny's getting a new job with the Ministry."

"And Bill?"

"He's not been quite the same since Fleur –"

"You don't have to say it. Please don't." She was surprised at the grief in her own voice. It was true that she had never been very fond of the half-Veela, but she was part of the Weasley family. And so was Hermione herself. And it always hurt to lose a family member, no matter how disliked they were. "I'm sorry. Let's not talk about it anymore." _Taptaptaptaptaptap…Tap, tap, tap. _"You had business to talk about? Your career seems to be treating you well."

Ron leaned forward with an elbow on his knees, his gaze intense on her face. "The Ministry owed my Dad a lot after all his loyalty. You know I wouldn't work there unless there was something better. It helps me provide for Lavender. And it helps the Order. I can keep a close eye on things."

"They're corrupt, Ron. And they will get us all killed if they can."

"Everyone's corrupt these days, Mione," he said softly, "And what better place for me to be? We need to be close to the situation. Unless we know what's happening, we can't counteract anything. The Ministry needs your help."

"_My help?_" _Taptaptaptap_ again. "Over my crucio-killed body, Ron."

"_Don't say that_." The desperation in his voice caused her to come up short with what else she had been going to say. He took a breath, then repeated himself wearily, "Don't say that, Mione. Too many people have said that in the past few years and regretted it. About Voldemort, about the Ministry. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of people dying."

The pen was tapping at a sickeningly rapid rate, until it slipped out of her fingers and went flying across the room. Ron paid it no mind. Hermione pretended like it hadn't happened. "You know what, Ron? I'm sick of people dying too. I'm sick of Voldemort. I'm sick of the Ministry of Magic. I'm sick of grieving. And I'm sick of the bloody war. So tell your Ministry to go to hell. I won't help them."

"You need to help them. This war needs to end."

"How the _hell_ will my help get this war to end?" She was glaring at him now, though she couldn't quite remember at what point in the conversation the topic had become hostile. His expression was wary, as if he had hunted the tigress many times and knew its tactics well. "Say something, you dunderhead."

"I was going to, if you would simply let me." The patience in his voice was worse than a slap in the face. Hermione felt herself clam up, regretting at how sour she had managed to become in such a short time. His hand covered hers, almost in a gesture of apology. It made her want to hit herself. He was always apologizing for her stupid actions lately. It was too much. She pulled her hand away from his grasp. "Hermione, there's too little of life left to spend it hating ourselves or each other. We have to stop this by staying together. We can't pull out now."

Hermione stared down at the desktop, observing the vague outline of her profile with tear-filled eyes. Taking in a shaky breath, she finally said, "Fine. Tell me. What do they want?"

It was quiet for a moment before Ron's voice struck the air again. "They have been following your published articles very closely over the past few months. They've taken an acute interest in your theories."

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed together in confusion as she reached for a tissue to dry her eyes with. "Which theories? I've published over a dozen in the past month. And why would psychological theories be of any interest to them?"

"Because…" He hesitated, scratching the stubble of his beard with his right hand for a moment while he considered how to say exactly what he had to. "They're interested in your theories about the secondary level of memory. And a wizard's ability to access such memories."

"I see. And what do they want?"

"You have to understand, Hermione. There are things that I simply cannot tell you."

"How am I supposed to give them what they want if I don't have a damn idea about what it is I should give them?" she snapped.

Ron held up his hand to stop any further words from pouring out of her lips. For the first time, she noticed how tired he looked. There were barely noticeable circles under his eyes that spoke of long nights without sleep. And his face looked more rugged, as if worn from a storm. She wondered how she could not have noticed it before. "We have…" He hesitated, his voice going a little hoarse at that point. "Well, I suppose you would call him a prisoner. A witness who is unwilling or unable to talk about what he knows. But if we could get him – Hermione, it would be the end of this war. _The end_."

"I don't understand, Ron."

The Weasley leaned forward, so close that his head was almost touching her own and said quietly, "Hermione…He knows where Voldemort is."

There was a moment of silence in the office, so thick that she could swear it was choking the both of them. Her hands came together in her lap, the fingers clenching tightly around one another until the knuckles were white. When she spoke again, the words were evenly spaced. _Impossible. _"Ron…How can he…_He_ – Ron, that's not _possible_! _No one_ knows where Voldemort is!"

"He was a Death Eater. And he turned himself in."

"_What?_" Hermione's voice was laced with incredulousness. She folded her arms over her chest stubbornly, and hissed, "Don't be ridiculous. Death Eaters don't turn themselves in like that. It's the simple truth. They just don't."

"This one is different. He claims that he was under the Imperius curse and that he had no control over –"

"Shit! You don't actually _believe_ him?"

"I know, I know," he said hastily, speaking quickly so that she wouldn't have another opportunity to interrupt him. He was ringing his hat between his hands now, coming across as extremely nervous. But in his eyes, there was a look of triumph – and wild hope. "We've gotten that excuse from dozens of arrested men. But this one turned himself in and gave the excuse, instead of simply falling back on the lie when he was taken by force. You follow?"

"Bloody hell."

"That doesn't matter much anyway. The point is, he _knows_. He was high up in the ranks, Mione. Very high. And he thinks he knows where Voldemort is staying. Where we can find him."

Hermione didn't miss a beat. "He thinks?"

Ron came up short. "Yes…Ummm…Well, he forgot. That, or he's lying. Which wouldn't surprise us much, seeing as he hasn't been very cooperative in retrieving said lost memories."

"He forgot. Peachy." Hermione groaned, burying her face in her fingers for a moment to regain some form of sanity from what Ron had told her thus far. "Tell me something, Ron. If he's forgotten all of it, and claims to have done everything under the Imperius curse, why does the Ministry believe him when he says that he was that far up the totem pole? How can they honestly think that he was being truthful when he said that he was so high in the chain of command?"

"Because of _who_ he is. The Ministry has no doubt that he was close to the dark lord."

She brought her eyes up curiously, parting her fingers to gaze at him again. "Who is he?"

There was a moment's pause, and then he said carefully, "Draco Malfoy."

**I know it's pretty short, kiddies. But we'll see how it goes. Review please. :D **


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